


Once Upon a Lily Pad

by MapleleafCameo



Series: Fairy Tales [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Fairy Tale Retellings, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, So many tropes, Tropes, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 11:34:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2108340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleleafCameo/pseuds/MapleleafCameo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Prince meets frog, well you know the story, sort of. A birthday fic for the lovely MrsNoggin. Crack, silliness fairytales, Doctors in disguise, arrogant princes, enchantments and flies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which a Promise is Extracted and a Skull Recovered

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MrsNoggin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsNoggin/gifts).



> So this idea came about whist I was on vacation in England. I wrote the opening chapter in jack63kids’ backyard (which is very pleasant, except for the amourous doves) and was egged on by the wonderful johnsarmylady:D
> 
> This is for MrsNoggins’ birthday. Happy Birthday my dear friend – it was so lovely to see you:)– I hope you can stand the silliness of it all:)
> 
> Thanks mattsloved1 for once again putting up with me and my repetitive errors:P
> 
> I do not own any detectives, bloggers, frogs, princes or magic spells, sadly, but hopefully there is enough magic in my story telling for you to enjoy this little story:)

There once lived a young, handsome, very arrogant, very rude prince by the name of Sherlock. He lived in a far away kingdom in the heart of the bustling city of London. He was pale of skin but dark of hair and temperament. Many who saw him remarked on the silvery, pale, translucent, ivory quality of his epidermis and how it contrasted nicely with the raven’s wing locks. The glossy curls would glisten and bounce fetchingly in the sunlight and many a maiden, and several lads would swoon as he passed by. A glance from his laser sharp eyes, a startling amalgam of green and blue toned gemstones (rather sparkly) would stop the simple folk in their tracks and drool would gather at their feet because of his fragile beauty. Despite his handsome features, he could be cruel and cutting. A razor sharp wit was used to reveal secrets large and small of those surrounding him, and he did not suffer fools gladly or even somewhat happily. Those he targeted would quiver and shake, his cruel remarks scarring their fragile egos and they would need to seek assistance from the kingdom’s therapist, Lady Ella.

 

Prince Sherlock’s older brother, the enigmatic King Mycroft, despaired over his little brother’s behavior. He heartily wished a friend would come along to entertain and challenge his brother and to keep his company. Prince Sherlock would shrug prettily and tell the King to sod off. He felt he lived a fairly content existence. He was pleased with his intellect, he disdained company of lesser mortals, and he was not the least bit lonely.

 

Or so he thought.

 

One day, Prince Sherlock was strolling through the palace grounds. He had been wandering here and there, trying, with difficulty, to find something, anything to occupy his mind. His vast intelligence was easily bored, and he required a constant stream of new information. These were the days King Mycroft greatly feared as a bored Prince Sherlock could cause great havoc and would often pout and rage, his comely countenance filled with wrath and the likelihood of the destruction of Kingdom property was greatly increased. Not to mention the complaints from the denizens of the castle.

 

As he drifted, Prince Sherlock held his only friend in his hand. When I say friend, I refer to the human skull he had been given as a child. He had named it Billy, and it was his constant companion, the only one who would stick with him through thick and thin. He liked Billy because Billy listened with a steady grin, didn’t judge and never spoke inexactitudes or gibberish. He was currently being tossed high up into the air. He didn’t seem to mind and in fact was smirking in his usual way. The warm sun gleamed on Billy’s hairless dome, and Prince Sherlock admired the fortitude and stamina of the skull. Not many enjoyed heights the way Billy did or trusted Sherlock enough to let him toss them, thusly. In this instance, it would have been within reason not to trust Prince Sherlock, as he really wasn’t watching where he was going and tripped over a rock. Billy, who had been on an upward trajectory, arched merrily through the air and with the wind whistling through the holes in his cranium, landed with a SPLOOSH in the small, nearby pond. The pond, situated behind tall grasses and reeds was hidden from Sherlock’s view, and he did not see Billy land. By the time he stood on his feet again, made an ill attempt to brush at the grass stains on his tighter-than-tight purple, silk shirt and muttered imprecations at camouflaged rocks reaching out and grabbing people’s ankles, the quiet ripples of Billy’s entrance into the pond had dissipated, and he could not tell where the skull had gone. Arms crossed, he looked into the murky waters of the pond, the lily pads and their accompanying flowers already covering up the scene of the crime. It was as if Billy had never existed.

 

“Oh, buggery hell. Billy! Where are you? It is inconceivable that you would leave me this way! Come back! Come back at once!” Prince Sherlock pouted ferociously, kicked at the offending rock and then swore some more as his toe throbbed painfully after encountering the stubbornness of rocks.

 

At that moment, there was a small rustle in the grass nearby, and a quiet voice said, “Ahem! Is there something wrong Prince Sherlock?”

 

Prince Sherlock looked down in the grass at his feet and discovered a small green frog. The frog, handsome in a froggy way, sat looking up at the prince, lips pursed thoughtfully. Prince Sherlock noticed immediately that the frog, in every way, shape and form appeared to be a common frog (Kingdom: _Animalia_ , Phylum _: Chordata_ , Class: _Amphibia_ , Order: _Anura_ , Family: _Ranidae_ , Genus: _Rana_ , Species: _Rana_ _temporaria_ ) except for three startling facts. The frog had eyes of a deep, rich navy, which in certain lights looked a deep, rich brown and were calm and fathomless. It had a distinct limp in its right leg and held its left forearm stiffly. And lastly, it was wearing an oatmeal-coloured jumper, which appeared rather soggy and sloshy, no doubt from having spent considerable time in the water. He filed these facts away for later perusal, attempting not to be distracted by how fascinating it all was. Apparently the idea of a talking frog did not enter into the equation at all.

 

Drawing himself up straight and tall, Prince Sherlock replied, “Matter? Matter! Billy has disappeared!”

 

The frog blinked and looked up at Sherlock, craning its head awkwardly. “Actually, I happen to know exactly where he is.”

 

“Foul creature, did you steal Billy?”

 

“No! He fell in the pond. Don’t you think you should go in after him? You know, before he drowns?” Sherlock could have sworn the frog snickered. Imagine! No one had the audacity to snicker at him. Ever!

 

He sniffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s already deceased.”

 

“Well, that’s rather hopeful then, isn’t it? He’d be good at holding his breath,” the frog said, matter of fact.

 

With a glare, Prince Sherlock huffed, “Billy’s a skull.”

 

“Oh,” said the frog.

 

The two stared at each other, neither breaching the silence. An errant fly zoomed by and the frog, tongue shooting out, snapped it up. The remarkable amphibian was beginning to interest Prince Sherlock.

 

“Well?”

 

“Well, what?”

 

“Aren’t you going to go and retrieve the skull for me? I am the prince after all, and you are one of my subjects, so to speak.”

 

The frog looked at Prince Sherlock, looked back at the pond, looked at Prince Sherlock again and sighed. It turned and hopped lopsidedly toward the water, stuck out its front foot as if to test the temperature. It shuddered, glanced warily at Sherlock once again and shrugged, which isn’t easy when one lacks shoulders.

 

“I guess I could.”

 

“You guess? Good heavens, what is the world coming too, when talking frogs are reluctant to retrieve submerged skulls.”

 

“I guess I could, for a favour.” The frog said, its tone now seemingly rather sly and cunning.

 

“A favour? What on earth could a frog want? You have this nice pond, plenty of flies and other insects. I am sure the lady frogs are rather enamoured of your hideous jumper and charming personality.”

 

“Well,” the frog appeared humble and blushed modestly. “They do call me Three Lily Pad Watson.”

 

“Why would they call you that?”

 

“I, erm, am rather lucky, erm, with the lady…”

 

“No, no, no! Ew! No, I mean Watson. That’s a strange name for a frog.”

 

“I’m not really a frog, see.”

 

“Of course, you’re not. “ One could practically hear the prince’s eyes roll.

 

“No, I’m not. I was a soldier and a doctor on my way home from the war. Something happened to me. I don’t quite remember what, exactly. Anyway, I woke up one day in this body. A strange, mysterious voice said I had to meet a Prince and become his friend and that’s how I could turn back into me, John Watson.” Prince Sherlock was certain the frog was deliberately leaving out important details in his story. It was possible that the frog was lying. Intriguing.

 

“John is hardly a better name for a frog.”

 

“I’m not a frog.”

 

Prince Sherlock waved his hand in the air, “Yes, yes, enchantment, magic, tedious. So what favour do you want in return for fetching Billy?”

 

The frog hummed a bit in its throat. “Ummm, well, if I am able to retrieve your, er, friend, I was wondering if I could come with you to the palace and be your friend…

 

“I don’t have friends.”

 

“eat off of your golden plate…”

 

“I don’t eat.”

 

“sleep on your feathered bed…”

 

“I don’t sleep and not my area, bestiality.”

 

“Oh, no! God no! No, not gay! So not a gay frog! I meant to sleep on your pillow.”

 

“Oh.” Prince Sherlock blinked rapidly as he thought about the offer. It would give him some time to study the frog and find out what made it tick. He wasn’t sure if he could dissect it, though, as he had with other specimens, but shrugging mentally he thought perhaps if the frog proved boring enough he’d be able to do it.

 

“All right. I will let you come to the palace, eat off of my plate, sleep on my bed, but no touching. And the friendship part will not be happening.”

 

The frog studied Prince Sherlock’s face carefully. It nodded as if to say to itself, ‘right, I don’t quite trust you, but I’ve nothing to lose.’ It seemed to be able to say a lot with one look of its mobile face. It then shrugged again and said. “I guess I’ll take my chances. Do I have your word?”

 

“Yes, fine, get on with it.”

 

With a turn and a splash, the frog entered the water. The lily pads moved and bumped slowly about once more. Sherlock watched for a bit, but quickly grew bored. He began to occupy his time by cataloguing the various types of plants surrounding the pond.

 

After an interminable wait, there came the sound of the loud thump of a heavy object and that of a small, wet body, hitting the verge at approximately the same time.

 

“Here you go,” panted the frog, clearly exhausted from the ordeal.

 

“Billy!” shouted Sherlock, with glee. “You’re back! What was it like below in the watery depths? Any treasures down there?”

 

“Not really,” said the frog. “It’s just a small pond.”

 

“Not talking to you,” said Sherlock over his shoulder and with a flounce he turned to leave. “Come along, frog. Time to head back to the palace.” The prince strode away quickly, his long legs carrying him out of sight. The frog could just make out the deep voice of the prince as he continued to chat with his skull.

 

“But wait!” it called after the rapidly departing figure. “What about me?”

 

If the prince had stuck around a little longer, he would have heard the frog say, in a resigned sort of way, “Git!”

 

_To be continued…_

 

 


	2. In Which Prince Sherlock Discovers Frogs Can Carry a Tune

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the interest in this story - you are very kind:)  
> Thanks mattsloved1 for reading through once again. How do you manage to put up with my whining? :P

Prince Sherlock made his way back to the castle, chattering away to Billy the entire trip. He would really have loved to discover what was at the bottom of the pond. With his long legs and the ingenious conversation he was having with the skull, it didn’t take long to arrive back at the palace. Before entering, he paused and glanced down at the ground, musing. He felt that there was something missing, that he should have something else with him. The feeling wouldn’t go away, so he decided to take a tally. Perhaps he had dropped an item or a piece of clothing. His personal inventory went something like this: 1. Tighter-than-tight Dolce and Gabbana purple silk shirt, check. 2. Painted on, beautifully cut, expensive Spencer Hart suit, emphasizing his rather lush derriere, check. 3. One pair super shiny Yves Saint Laurent shoes he loved to wear because they reflected his image back at him, check. 4. No favourite, wool Belstaff Milford coat, and blue Paul Smith scarf today, but that was because it was so warm out, check. 5. Billy the skull, check. Hmmm, what could be missing?

 

If it were really that important, he’d remember. When he was back in his rooms, he would flop down on his comfortably squishy sofa and retreat to his mind fortress and pull it out of one of the many chambers inside. Or not. It really didn’t matter.

 

Quietly slipping inside the palace, he tried, unsuccessfully, to creep past the dining hall. Sadly, his older brother King Mycroft knew his ways and called out his name as he’d begun to sneak up the stairs. He groaned. He really didn’t care if it was the highest insult to his brother to ignore his summons to the dining hall or not, but on the other hand, he hadn’t eaten for a few days and was feeling a bit peckish. He also remembered it was Wednesday and on Wednesday the Head Cook, Chief Housekeeper and all around motherly type, the Lady Hudson, made mince tarts. If he wanted any, he would have to go into supper, because she refused to bring him any to his room. Also, his brother the pig would most likely eat them all if he were left alone with them.

 

He entered the dining hall, a cavernous room with an enormous polished table that would easily seat a small nation. His brother was sat at the furthest place from the entrance. There was another place set next to him on his right, waiting for Prince Sherlock. It was too much to hope that he would be allowed to sit at the other end of the table where he wouldn’t have to talk to his insufferable brother. He set Billy upon the table next to him and ensured he was facing Mycroft.

 

Servants quickly and silently served the King and his brother a traditional dinner of roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, and oven-roasted potatoes. Prince Sherlock, finding for a change that he did indeed have an appetite, managed to consume about half of his meal in three bites. King Mycroft looked down his hawkish nose at the display.

 

“Good evening, Sherlock. How nice of you to join us for dinner.”

 

“Hello, Chubs. I see you’re off of the diet again and gained seven pounds. You’ll be known as Good King Porky if you’re not careful.”

 

A wintery smile tugged at the corners of King Mycroft’s lips. So wintery, snow descended from the ceiling, and there was the faint sound of sleigh bells. Tiny urchins wept in the streets.

 

“We’ve lost three pounds for your information, not that it is any concern of yours.”

 

“Don’t you find it pretentious to use the Royal ‘we’ all the time? It’s only the two of us. No, of course, you don’t. You enjoy it.”

 

“How amusing you are. We see you have been wandering around with your only friend again. Anything you care to tell us about, you and that thing you insist on carting everywhere?”

 

“Nope.” The p burst out with a nice round, popping sound.

 

“Down to the pond, then. Hmmm. We notice some mud clinging to the bottom of the skull and what looks like some fresh water grass only found in this area of London, on the inside of his left socket. Billy went for a swim, did he? How careless.”

 

Prince Sherlock glared at the king.

 

“We sincerely hope that someday, dear brother, you learn how to take better care of your things. It wouldn’t do for you to lose something you truly cared about would it? Something precious.”

 

As Prince Sherlock was about to open his mouth and respond with a scathing comment, so blazingly horrible as to pin his older brother to the chair he was sitting in for a week, to tell him he sounded an awful lot like Gollum from Lord of the Rings, there came a loud knocking at the front door. The sound of an underling's feet pattered across the marble floor of the entryway and echoed into the dining hall, followed by the creak of the heavy outer door. Muffled voices were heard and Gregson, chief-door opener, appeared in the dining hall.

 

“What is it, Gregson?” asked King Mycroft.

 

“There is a frog to see the Prince, your Majesty.” He said this with his usual aplomb as if a frog coming to see the Prince was a matter of course.

 

The King’s eyebrow lifted and he turned to his younger brother. “A frog? Intriguing. Show the amphibian in.”

 

Gregson bowed and left.

 

The conversation with the frog and the knowledge that this was what had been left behind at the pond came rushing into Prince Sherlock’s head. He also remembered the promise he had made. He heaved a great huff and felt very put upon. How on Earth could anyone, a prince, in particular, expect to let a frog eat off his plate and sleep on his pillow? Dull.

 

Gregson returned at a steady pace, politely waiting for the frog to follow him into the room. He was always polite.

 

“Doctor John Watson, frog, to see Prince Sherlock,” announced Gregson as if introducing a frog was a normal everyday occurrence. Gregson was very good at his job.

 

The frog made its way slowly up to the head of the table. King Mycroft watched with interest. It hadn’t escaped his attention that Sherlock was annoyed by the arrival of the frog, and he was determined to find out what this was about.

 

“Well, my good frog, what can we do for you today?”

 

The frog bowed a rather courtly gesture for one of low stature. “Your Majesty, I am here because your brother, Prince Sherlock, in exchange for saving his skull Billy, promised I would be allowed to eat off of his plate and sleep on his pillow.”

 

The King’s other eyebrow joined the first one, making an attractively matched pair.

 

“Is this true, Sherlock? Did you promise this frog, Doctor Watson, what was it? That he could eat off of your plate and sleep on your pillow? Because that’s extreme, even for you.”

 

“I knew I forgot something back at the pond. Yes, I promised.”

 

“You will have to keep your promise, you know, Sherlock? A prince cannot simply make a promise, even to the lowliest, most humble of all of our subjects and simply go back on it. Think of what the papers would say. We shudder to think.”

 

“Yes, Mycroft. I know! I will keep my promise. Frog, why didn’t you keep up?”

 

“A little difficult, your Highness, as my leg makes it tricky to follow you quickly and you have scarily long legs. And please, it’s John.”

 

“Odd name for a frog,” said the King.

 

“Not just a frog,” the frog answered.

 

“No,” said Prince Sherlock. “Apparently it was once a human and has been transformed into the creature we see before us. It claims to have been a soldier and a doctor and that to break the spell it must eat off of my plate and sleep on my pillow. It also implies the need for us to become friends.”

 

King Mycroft’s eyebrows really couldn’t get much higher, but they did. “Friends? With you? Please! Oh, the bravery of the frog who was once a soldier!”

 

Prince Sherlock noted that the frog sat there quietly, glaring a little at the King, chin up a bit and its pride held stiff and resolute. Fascinating. It really wasn’t afraid of his brother. Prince Sherlock steepled his hands together and leaned his elbows on the table, peering more closely at the little frog. Coming to a decision that almost but not quite surprised him, he bent down and lifted the frog onto the table.

 

“Thank you,” it piped. Prince Sherlock shrugged and then remembered he had promised to let the frog eat off his plate. He moved it closer to the frog but pretended disinterest in what it did next. The frog looked at him with what could only be described as gratitude and began to flick its tongue out and pull in small amounts from the remains left from Prince Sherlock’s inhaled supper. It didn’t eat much. More like it had a taste of everything. With a sense of curiosity that was growing, despite his wish it would not Prince Sherlock tipped his wine glass toward the frog, a long sticky tongue came out again and delicately slurped up a drop. The frog nodded its thanks and Prince Sherlock, knowing neither wasn’t going to eat much more, signalled for the servants. The table was cleared quickly, and a large dish of mince tarts was placed before the king. With a sad sigh and a mournful mutter of “what, no cake?” King Mycroft helped himself to ten. Prince Sherlock only took two, one of which he held out to the frog. This time, the frog ate the entire offering. In a flash the tongue came out, wrapped around the tart and the whole thing disappeared into its rather large mouth. Prince Sherlock found himself staring long and hard at the length of the frog’s tongue, his thoughts heading in strange directions. He felt a flush start at the top of his head and sweep down his body; he blinked rapidly and shook his head. He could not have been thinking about what he was thinking about. He must have been wondering if there were experiments it would let him do to see how long and flexible the tongue was. Yes, that was it.

 

King Mycroft cleared his throat, looked pointedly at the Prince, stood and declared supper over and that he would be adjourning to his study to work on all the great and wonderful things he was doing for the country. After he had left the room, Prince Sherlock whispered to the frog, “More likely he’s off to have a nap.”

 

To his surprise, the frog giggled. He had never, in all his days, heard a frog giggle. A warm glow began to settle in the area of the prince’s chest, around that organ, he’d long thought dried up and desiccated. His heart.

 

With less reluctance and a growing sense of wonder, Prince Sherlock said to the frog, “Well frog, I guess you will need to come with me.”

 

“I really wish you would call me John.”

 

“Why would I call you that?”

 

“It’s my name.”

 

“Oh very well. Seems boring and plain. John. Come along.” And he turned to go.

 

“Wait!”

 

“What is it now?” Prince Sherlock whined.

 

The frog heaved a very big sigh, much bigger than its tiny body. “I can’t get down off of the table. I think you are going to have to carry me.”

 

“Carry you? Good heavens. What next?” But he did scoop up the frog into his hand and placed him in the inside pocket of his jacket. He’d just have to send it out for dry cleaning. “Now look frog, you’d better not urinate in there.”

 

A muffled voice came from the jacket pocket. “I am quite capable of holding my pee, thank you very much.”

 

“Good.” Prince Sherlock left the dining hall and clattered rapidly up the broad and sweeping staircase. There was a strange, _uhn, uhn, uhn_ sound following him up the stairs which he ignored until he reached the top. He paused and looked around wondering what was making that noise. He realised it was the frog. He reached into his pocket and pulled it out. It looked a little green.

 

“I may not pee in there,” it said, “but if you don’t stop bouncing me around I may be sick.”

 

Prince Sherlock shot the frog a glare but held it in his hand more carefully. He walked briskly along the corridor and stopped in front of a large black door. Swinging it open he entered a suite of rooms. The frog sat up a little on his hand and looked around. At first, the room gave the air of a cosy sitting room with its big squishy looking sofa and chairs and a blazing fire, burning cheerily in the fireplace. On closer inspection, it held an eclectic collection of art, everything from portraits of well-known scientists to bizarre postmodern art. There seemed to be a large number of paintings dedicated to the depiction of skulls. Books and papers were scattered here and there. An assortment of glass cases with odds and ends gleamed in the firelight. Near the window was a music stand and a violin was placed with care on the nearby chair. Still the room was intriguing and said a lot about the interests of the Prince.

 

Oddly, Prince Sherlock felt himself holding his breath as if waiting for John to declare the room a disaster and a health hazard, as his brother regularly did.

 

“I like it.”

 

The warm, glowy feeling blossomed even greater inside his chest. No one ever liked the Prince’s rooms, his brother, their parents and especially the servants. They all despaired he would ever tidy, and they all wanted him to get rid of his treasures and trinkets.

 

He carefully set the frog down on a low table and began puttering around the room. He watched out of the corner of his eye, to see what John would do. It seemed to settle a bit and continued to take in its surroundings. As it became more relaxed, it began to groom itself, its long tongue once more sweeping out to clean the eyes and sweeping over its body.

 

Prince Sherlock was feeling too restless to sleep, so, as was his habit on sleepless nights, he picked up the violin and began to play. He started with one of his favourite pieces, one he had written. Part of him wanted to play to help settle himself, but part of him, the part that felt underappreciated, wanted to show off for John. Maybe it would like to hear a little violin music.

 

After the third piece of music, he noticed an odd humming sound. Whilst still playing, he searched the room and discovered the noise was coming from John. It was humming along with the violin. Enchanted by this discovery, Sherlock leaned in closer. A large grin split the plain and bumby face as Prince Sherlock swept the bow to a rousing finale.

 

Prince Sherlock stared and then nodded his head, elegantly, toward him.

 

“I have never played whilst a frog hummed to my music.”

 

John blushed a deep green. “Oh, well, when I was in the army, at night sometimes the lads would sing songs or bring out guitars. On nights, we weren’t getting bombed or shot at, or I wasn’t trying to patch kids up.”

 

Prince Sherlock sat down in the chair closest to John, his hands loosely holding the violin and bow across his legs.

 

“Tell me,” he said softly.

 

With a pause and a blink, John began to tell the Prince of his service in the war for King and Country in the arid land of Afghanistan. Prince Sherlock, who had never been interested in anyone else’s story but his own, listened as John spun a tale of hot desert winds and skies filled with a multitude of stars. There were stories of humour and loss, terror, and bravery, but all told with a frog’s humble perspective and a man’s eye for detail.

 

Finally in the wee small hours of the night, John, a giant yawn stretching his mouth open wide, blinked sleepily at Prince Sherlock and said. “I’m sorry, your Highness, but it’s been a long, exciting day, and I am very tired.”

 

Prince Sherlock nodded and picked up John and carried him carefully into his room. He placed him on a plump, goose down pillow, covered with the finest Egyptian cotton. He turned his back and quickly changed into his ratty t-shirt, inside out and backwards, and jammie bottoms and climbed into bed beside John. He blew out the lamp and fell asleep much faster than he usually did.

 

The moon danced through a sea of clouds, tossed by the wind as the night shifted its way to early morning shone down upon the sleeping prince and the slumbering frog.

 

At some point in the last tattered remains of the dark, Prince Sherlock woke up, abruptly. He sat up, blinking, wondering what had woken him. With a start, he realised he had left Billy on the table in the dining hall. It was the first time he had ever forgotten him. He lay back on his bed and turned onto his side; one arm came up under his head as he looked at the sleeping form of John Watson, former Captain, Army surgeon, frog at large. His forehead crinkled as he contemplated the sleeping figure on his pillow. His free hand reached out tentatively and as if to stroke John along his spine, but he stopped, wondering why and where that sudden urge had come from. He also wondered at what point in the night, whilst talking with John presumably; he had stopped think of him as an it. Hmmm. What was it about this little frog that intrigued Sherlock so?

 

_To be continued…_


	3. In Which John Confesses He Likes Cake and Doughnuts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once again for all the lovely comments:) And thanks to mattsloved1 for her help once again:) She stayed up late for this one!
> 
> The title refers to a Tumblr post – if anyone cares:P
> 
> Don’t own but if I did…

Early morning light sidled into the bedroom of Prince Sherlock. It entered on quiet feet and followed an iridescent path. It gathered a cloak of dust motes, which danced and swirled through the air. Unhurried, it encircled the bed and fell in bright coils across the sleeping prince. The warmth and change in light signalled something inside Prince Sherlock, triggered part of his brain and told him morning had arrived. Lying on his back, he turned away from the light in firm denial, as he snuffled, rubbed his face and finally settled on his side. No one, not even the sun, could tell him when it was time to wake up. As he turned into the soft, snugly pillow, something cold and damp brushed against his face, tickling him. Irritably, he moved his face back and forth and batted his fingers at it, but it was still there. Blearily, he opened his eyes. Pressed up against his face was a swath of green and brown, slick and smelling slightly of swamp. A small limb patted him lightly on the face. He blinked again, frowning. The events of the day before streamed into his sleep-addled head, and he jerked his head back, grunting. Large, navy blue eyes blinked back at him.

 

“Morning!” trilled the frog, merrily. “It’s a beautiful day! The sun is shining, birds are birding, and it’s time to get up!”

 

Prince Sherlock grunted again, a monosyllabic phrase that seemed to convey the message, ‘Yes, all right. It’s morning. No need to be so sickeningly cheerful. Who cares about the sun and the birds are too noisy for their own good.’

 

“Oh, now Prince Sherlock, no need to take on so. You will feel much better when you have had breakfast. Come, come, let us arise and greet the day.”

 

In response, the prince rolled over and pulled the covers over his head. He snuggled down further into the warmth of the sheets. He was just drifting off again when the small hand (paw? forefoot?) tugged on the end of the topmost piece of bedding.

 

“Rise and shine! Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakie! Good Morning Starshine! The earth says ‘Hello!’ It’s morning time; it’s morning time!” A whole litany of similar phrases rained down upon Prince Sherlock’s delicate, royal ears.

 

“Arrrrgh! Stop it! Stop it this instant. I forbid you to be this cheerful and…and…”

 

“And?”

 

“Perky! For god’s sake, frog…”

 

“John.”

 

“John! For god’s sake, dial it down! I am not a morning person.”

 

“Really? Shocking that! Hadn’t noticed. Now, let’s go and get some breakfast! I smell bacon! Hmmm! And perhaps flies, too! Yum, yum, yum!”

 

“I don’t eat!”

 

But John ignored the crabbiness and hummed a trite and pleasant tune, pulling on his oatmeal jumper. Prince Sherlock didn’t remember seeing him take it off the night before and even though he was surly and not quite awake, part of his brain was amazed to see a frog dressing. It wasn’t something one saw on a day-to-day basis. John’s sunny disposition continued, however, much to his irritation, as he jumped and landed with a plop onto the floor. He continued to sing under his breath, and the odd word or two reached the prince’s ear.

 

“Good mornin’! hmmm, hmmm. It’s great to stay up late! Good mornin’!...”

 

With a heavy sigh and a curse of ‘no one should be that happy,’ Prince Sherlock threw back the covers and stood, stretching his back until it cracked. He yawned mightily and rumpled his bed-tossed curls, head bent forward, hands chased the curls back and forth. He scrubbed his eyes and glanced at the floor, where John was watching him. He observed him swallow heavily and John’s long, tongue popped out, but this time there was no fly to snap up. He was just licking his lips, slowly

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing…it’s just…well…with the light on you…never mind.”

 

Prince Sherlock gave John a funny look but dismissed the two lines of inane conversation from his mind. He reached down to the bottom of his bed & slipped on his blue silk housecoat. Following John into the front part of his suite of rooms, his nose was assailed with the indolent aroma of freshly cooked bacon. There were also pancakes and tea.

 

“Wow,” said John, “it’s like breakfast in bed but without crumbs in the sheets.” He waited with a patient but hopeful look on his face. Prince Sherlock sat down and began to dish up items from different platters onto his plate. He started to eat in a hurried sort of way as if he didn’t really taste the food. While he ate, he sorted through the pile of correspondence stacked beside his plate. The occasional ‘Ridiculous’ or ‘Dull’ graced his lips.

 

“Ahem”

 

Nothing

 

“Ahem,” a little louder.

 

Nope

 

“Prince Sherlock!”

 

“Yes? Oh, you again. Very well.”

 

Prince Sherlock lifted John and deposited him on the table. He pushed some of the leftover food on his plate toward John. A jar of what he had thought was blackcurrants and turned out to be flies was opened, and he sprinkled some on top of the breakfast remains.

 

John hummed in pleasure as he tucked into the pancakes, bacon, and flies. Although absorbed with the stack of letters, every now and then Prince Sherlock would glance at the frog. He watched him eat with some amusement. When he realized what he was doing, he gave a sudden start. There seemed to be another swell of some emotion in the region of his heart as he watched John eat off his plate. He shrugged mentally and tucked it into the back of his mind fortress to think about later.

 

After a few moments of chewing and the clank of utensils, Prince Sherlock noticed that John was staring wistfully at Sherlock’s cup of tea.

 

“Tea?” asked the prince.

 

“Umm, probably not a good idea, being an amphibian and all, I’m not sure if hot liquids would be, you know, safe.”

 

A thoughtful look came over Prince Sherlock’s face. He tipped his cup carefully and poured a small measure of tea into his saucer. He blew gently on the liquid and then set the dish down in front of John. John’s blue eyes looked at Prince Sherlock, and a big grin stretched from one side of his face to the other. Literally. He placed his webbed front feet on the saucer’s edge, bent his head and flicked his tongue out toward the saucer, slurping up the tea.

 

“Thank you! I must say I have missed tea. Well and jam. I haven’t had much jam lately. Also kittens. They’re dangerous to me in this state. They just want to chase me and eat me now. I did so love to cuddle kittens.” A sigh came from the little frog. “It makes me very angry, not to be able to enjoy the little everyday things. It’s like I have this rage inside me holding it all together.” He stopped talking when he noticed Prince Sherlock wasn’t paying attention.

 

“Well, that was entirely useless,” said Prince Sherlock.

 

“What was?”

 

Prince Sherlock looked over at John. “In order to prevent my mind from rotting from disuse and the utter boredom of being a prince, I solve crimes in my spare time. The local constabulary is particularly useless and out of their depths, so I took an ad out in the Ye Old Royal Standard. I take the cases no one else will, but lately, they have been stupid and boring.” He waved a fistful of letters around, crumpled them and threw them onto the floor in disgust. He grabbed another off the pile. “Take this one for example. ‘Dear Prince Sherlock, My wife disappears every night after supper. She says she’s going out to milk the cows, but there’s one problem. We don’t have any cows. Help me. I think she’s bewitched.’ Dolt! Obviously, she’s having an affair, most likely with the neighbour. Or this, ‘Dear Your Highness, I can’t find Bluebell anywhere. Please, please, please can you help?’”

 

“Bluebell?”

 

“A dog, John!”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Ah, but there’s more! Before Bluebell disappeared, it turned luminous “like a fairy” according to little Kirsty; then the next morning, in place of Bluebell, there was a rabbit! Wearing the dog’s collar. Hopeless! This! This is what I am reduced to!” He slouched down in his chair, one leg thrown carelessly over the arm.

 

A thoughtful look appeared on John’s face. “Hmmm. When did this happen?”

 

Prince Sherlock looked back at the letter. “About four weeks ago. Why?”

 

“Well, before I was turned into a frog about two weeks ago, I could swear I was surrounded by a blue light. What if whoever did this to me was practicing.”

 

It was as if a candle flickered over Prince Sherlock’s head and its light shone down upon him. He sat upright, his plump, petal pink lips, puckered into a perfect ‘o’ shape. “John! That’s brilliant. Quick! We must away!” In a flurry he shoved back his chair and stood, prepared to storm out of the castle.

 

“Prince Sherlock? You might want to change before you go.”

 

“Oh, yes, of course.” He immediately began to shuck off his jammies. A glance at John and he noticed the frog was watching him, but out of the corner of his eye as if he wasn’t trying to look at Sherlock but couldn’t quite help himself. Prince Sherlock cleared his throat. John looked over at him and blushed.

 

“Sorry, umm, I didn’t mean, but…”

 

“What?”

 

“I didn’t mean to watch. Not that the view isn’t pleasant.”

 

Prince Sherlock frowned. “You said you weren’t gay?”

 

“Nope! Nope, not me. Not gay.”

 

“But you…”

 

“What?”

 

“Commented…”

 

“I like cake and doughnuts.”

 

“What is that suppose to mean?”

 

“Nothing,” John said, a tad regretfully. He muttered something else. It sounded an awful lot like he said ‘I might be pie,' which made absolutely no sense; he supposed being trapped in a frog’s body for two weeks would do something to a person.

 

Normally he didn’t care much about privacy. That was for peasants, but he was mindful that John was his guest, so he slipped back into the bedroom and changed into a suit similar to the one he wore yesterday. This time, he wore a shirt of a deep blue. He frowned at it momentarily. It reminded him of the blue of John’s eyes. Well, at least, they’d match.

 

As he re-entered the sitting room, he happened to see John’s face. John’s eyes got impossibly big, and a silly grin seemed to flood his face. When he noticed Prince Sherlock was staring back, he turned his head and muttered something about the weather and possibly something else that sounded like ‘I think I’d like to play in both streams,' which, to be fair, he could see the appeal to a frog. He was also beginning to wonder if he needed to get his hearing checked.

 

“So where are we going?”

 

“We are going to see young Kirsty about her dog turned rabbit! You know you may not be the smartest frog. No, scratch that, of course, you’re the smartest frog…”

 

“Thanks,” said John, drily.

 

“But you certainly illuminated the possibilities of this one, John. I would never have made the connection if you hadn’t hopped into the castle. The only thing that would make this better would be a dead body!”

 

“Yuck!”

 

“Oh, come now! You’re a soldier and a doctor. You must have seen lots of action.”

 

“True, but that doesn’t mean I want to see any more dead bodies.”

 

“It would be fun. Just think, with your expertise of the human body and my phenomenal powers of deduction we would make a formidable team. Criminals would fear us.”

 

“Yeah, the Prince and his frog.”

 

Although Prince Sherlock knew John was being facetious, there was something about hearing that phrase that made his stomach flip.

 

“Yes, well, we might want to work on a scarier moniker.” And for the first time since meeting John, Prince Sherlock felt his mouth move up into a smile, and the smile grew into a laugh, joyous and bright. As he laughed, the warm feeling from earlier and yesterday filled his entire body and in fact became even warmer when John joined in. Until a frog giggles with you, you really can’t say you’ve lived.

 

Wiping his eyes, he pulled himself together, picked up John carefully and placed him inside an outer pocket this time. He thought perhaps John might like to see where they were going. He glanced down. John leaned out of the pocket, his little digits clinging to the edge, a big smile on his face. He paused in thought. Never in his life had he felt the desire or indeed had wished for the happiness of someone else. Not even Billy. John looked up at Sherlock, and his grin became even wider, his obvious pleasure at being taken out and about. Prince Sherlock smiled in return and the fondness he didn’t know he held in his heart for the frog grew three times larger.

 

oOo

 

Several hours later the happy feeling that had bubbled up inside him had dissipated.

 

“That was tedious!”

 

“I suppose,” said John, thoughtfully.

 

“You suppose! She couldn’t tell us a thing! And any evidence near where the dog was tied up was destroyed by all the idiots trampling the ground.” He threw himself onto the sofa.

 

“Argh!”

 

“What? Oh! Sorry, John. I forgot you were in my pocket.” He pulled the slightly squashed frog out of his pocket and looked around for somewhere to put him. After a few minutes, he settled him on his chest. He placed his hands behind his head to elevate it slightly so he could maintain eye contact with John.

 

John sighed and leaned on his forearms. “So what now? You didn’t find anything to link my situation to the little girl’s. What will we do now?”

 

“We?”

 

“Oh, um, I’m sorry. I just rather thought…”

 

“No, of course, I was just surprised you wanted to? I wasn’t sure you were interested?”

 

“Are you kidding? What you did back there, that was amazing! You knew what everyone had had for breakfast and what part of the country everyone grew up in and all that flashy stuff about who was sleeping with whom? Who would have thought that the wife of the guy who wrote that other letter was the one sleeping around with Kirsty’s dad? Even if you didn’t find anything to help figure out who might have cursed me, you solved that one. That was brilliant.”

 

“You really think so?” Prince Sherlock said, softly.

 

“That it was brilliant? Oh god yes! You were absolutely amazing.”

 

“No one’s ever said anything like that before.”

 

“Really? No one? Well, that’s sad, that is. People just need to get to know you, hear and see what you can do. If only there were some way I could write about it and tell people. You are very special, Prince Sherlock.”

 

At that moment, Prince Sherlock would have given anything, his royal title, his fancy clothes, and even Billy, to live in the glow of John’s praise, that moment of John’s complete belief in him. To have someone hold him in such high esteem, to have John say those things. If his eyes grew bright and his heart raced a little, who could blame him?

 

“John, I don’t know what to say. I, no one, that is to say…”

 

“Shhh, it’s okay, Prince Sherlock, you don’t have to say anything. I just feel terrible no one has ever said this to you.”

 

“Sherlock, just Sherlock, please. I think you have earned the right.”

 

John beamed at him.

 

The two continued to stare at each other. Just as it began to feel a bit awkward, there came a knock at the door to the suite.

 

“Whoo-hoo! Prince Sherlock, dear! I’ve brought you some tea. You missed lunch again, you silly boy. You know if you don’t keep up your strength…” In entered Prince Sherlock’s most favourite person in the world, the Lady Hudson, the head cook, Chief Housekeeper and all around motherly type.

 

“Hello dear,” she said to John. “I have heard all about you. I hope Prince Sherlock, dear, can help you sort out this nasty curse of yours.” She set the tray she had been carrying on the table, which must have been cleared of breakfast things while they were out. She turned, smiled brightly at the two figures on the couch and she clasped her hands together. “Oh, look at you. What a lovely pair you make. Prince Sherlock, dear, you should introduce us,” she scolded fondly.

 

“Lady Hudson, John, John, Lady Hudson.”

 

“Pleased to meet you,” said John, “but you should know, we aren’t a couple.”

 

“Why ever not? I mean once Prince Sherlock, dear, figures out this curse of yours and turns you back to you, I am sure you can move right in. There’s plenty of room, and it’s so nice for Prince Sherlock, dear, to have a friend. And Prince Sherlock, dear, you could do so much worse than a doctor. He seems like a handsome frog, doesn’t he? You know, I was saying the other day to my friend, the Lady Turner…”

 

Standing abruptly, Prince Sherlock carefully settled John on the table next to the tea tray and gently ushered Lady Hudson out of the door.

 

“Yes, thank you, Lady Hudson, don’t you think you’d better run back down to the kitchen and make sure the soup isn’t burning?” He shut the door behind her.

 

“Sorry about that.”

 

“No, it’s all right. I mean, I guess I don’t really mind.”

 

“Even though you aren’t gay?” He heard the bitterness seep into his tone, bitterness he didn’t even know he had inside. Until he’d met John he hadn’t been interested in pursuing anything of a romantic nature. Everyone was too slow and too dull. But John, John was magical and bright and full of sunshine and goodness, and he liked tea. Prince Sherlock hadn’t even sensed the need. He was perfectly happy being celibate and felt that he was above such trivial urges. It was bad enough that his body required food and rest, not to mention having to take time out to use the privy, but sex, sex had never entered his thoughts, until he met John. It was a little difficult to think that way about John because he was after all a frog. But what if John were turned back into a human? Oh, that was ridiculous. John wasn’t gay.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

He came back to his surroundings.

 

“Yes?”

 

“I’ve been trying to get your attention. Where on earth did you go just know?”

 

“Oh, umm, just thinking.”

 

“I’ve been thinking too, and there’s something I want to tell you.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“It’s that. I’m not gay…per se.”

 

Something fierce and heavy swooped into his chest. Was it hope? Was this what hope felt like? He didn’t want to think about it. What if he was wrong? “What’s that suppose to mean?”

 

“Most people come in different packages. Some people are particular about which package they open, but me, not so much. I’m delighted to say and to share with you that I have the facility to reach down someone’s pants and be totally satisfied with whatever I find.”

 

“Come again?”

 

“Well, it might be too soon for that. We just met yesterday?”

 

“What?”

 

“Sherlock…I like you.”

 

“You like me?”

 

John sighed. “Yes. I mean no, I mean, I _like_ you.”

 

“So you…like me?’

 

“Yes”

 

“If you were human, you’d want to…?”

 

“Do you? Oh most definitely. Do you have any idea how completely beautiful you are? Good lord Sherlock. You are the most attractive person I have ever met. You really need to close your mouth. It’s flopping open, rather like a fish.”

 

“But I don’t understand. You said you weren’t gay.”

 

“I’m not gay. I like both women and men. I’m bi. Bisexual.”

 

“Oh, that makes so much more sense. I thought you said you were pie.”

 

John blinked at him and then giggled once again. Sherlock thought he would melt with the sound. If it were in his power, he would try to make John giggle every day.

 

“So you like me.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Even when my mouth is open?”

 

“Especially when your mouth is open!” said John.

 

A blush flowed over his skin and Sherlock stammered a bit. John grinned at him and no one, no one had ever looked at Sherlock the way John was looking at him. As if he were the most wonderful, most important, singularly astonishing person in the world.

 

“Come here, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock found he was stepping closer to the table, and he knelt on the floor, so his face was on the same level as John’s. He leaned in closer and John lifted up his forearm to touch Sherlock’s face.

 

“You are so perfect, so beautiful. Has anyone told you? You could break my heart, you know.”

 

It seemed as if time stopped and they were the only two people on the Earth. Sherlock leaned closer. His eyes closed and just as he was about to plant one upon John’s lips the door to his room was flung open.

 

_To be continued…_


	4. In Which Sherlock Attempts Another Kiss. Twice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Me again. I am sorry this has been so long in coming. Erg! This chapter would not cooperate & was hard to write, but here it is. I hope you enjoy it.  
> Thanks to mrspencil for the suggestion of A Frog Went A Courting, Ian Fleming for being awesome and letting me use his quotes & of course ACD who doesn’t care:D  
> Special thanks to mattsloved1 who looked through this for me and I followed her suggestions, so nay other mistakes are mine.

With an almighty crash, the door swung around and slammed into the wall.

 

Prince Sherlock jumped back, startled. John leapt forward and set in motion a series of calamities, which caused the tablecloth to skitter off of the table pulling with it the tea tray. John crashed into the wall beside the table with a wet thud, and he slid to the bottom of the wainscoting, the hot teapot just missed him. The tablecloth fluttered down on top, burying his small body. From underneath the folds of cloth could be heard the quiet voice of the amphibian whispering, “That’s one.”

 

Using the lightning fast preternatural reflexes all princes are born with, Sherlock instinctively pulled the cloth off of John and rescued him before he could be smothered or scalded by the hot tea pooling on the floor. He picked John up and held him in his hands.

 

“Are you hurt?”

 

John shook his head.

 

Angry at the disturbance and the possibility of John being injured, Sherlock rushed to the open door to see who was there. He walked out into the hallway and noted that it was empty in both directions. A mighty frown appeared upon his handsome, princely face.

 

“That is strange.”

 

“No one’s there,” mused John.

 

“That door should not have opened on its own.” With John still in his hand, Sherlock crouched down to look at the doorframe, the knob, and the latch. Everything appeared to be normal.

 

Lips pursed together, John leaned out of Sherlock’s hand and looked as well.

 

“Very odd,” said Sherlock. “This door seems to be heavy, so a breeze or a draft wouldn’t cause it to open like that and it appears to be a well made, secure door latch.” A puzzled look on his face, Sherlock shut it once more. He stood in the middle of the room, staring and then walked over to the fireplace. A long cord hung near the far end, and he gave it a yank.

 

John raised his eyebrows, or at least gave a look that was reminiscent of one raising one’s eyebrows if he had any. Prince Sherlock, deep in thought, ignored him and returned to the sofa. He swung his long legs up and stretched out upon it, his hands up near his chin and palms together. John sat upon Sherlock’s chest, quietly, for all of two minutes.

“What are you doing?”

 

“I’m thinking.”

 

“What are you thinking about?”

 

“How the door opened on its own. Now be quiet, whilst I think.”

 

After a few minutes, John, bored, began to sing, just low enough to not quite be heard.

 

“A froggie went a courtin’ and he did ride, uh-huh, uh-huh.”

 

“John?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

John snuggled down on Sherlock’s chest.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“What is it now?”

 

“Were you going to kiss me?”

 

“When?”

 

“Before. Before the door swung open.”

 

Sitting up in a rather gangly manner, Sherlock put John back in his hand and raised him up to his eye level. John noted that Sherlock might have been blushing a wee bit.

 

“I was…I might…I think…I don’t know.”

 

“Have you ever kissed anyone before?”

 

“No…no I haven’t. Not even a person let alone a frog. That is, that doesn’t mean I don’t think you aren’t a person, it just means, that…no, I haven’t.”

 

“You are awfully cute when you are flustered. You know, you could try again,” John suggested.

 

“I guess, yes I could, couldn’t I?” He turned John and lowered his hand so that their lips were closer together and then bent forward. Just as he was about to kiss him, a strong wind gusted through the window and blew the rest of the dishes and a tall vase of flowers off of the table, causing Sherlock to jump once more, but this time, he held tight to John and nothing untoward happened to him.

 

“Interesting,” he said, narrowing his eyes.

 

“That’s odd.”

 

“It is, isn’t it? It seems that every time I try to kiss you something or someone interrupts. It’s as if I am being prevented from kissing you.”

 

“You don’t think it’s a coincidence?”

 

“Let us test this, shall we? Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence. Shall we see what happens three times? Nothing worse than an unproven theory.”

 

With a sort of grim determination, which would have put off a lesser man, but not John Watson, frog extraordinaire, Sherlock lifted him up again and attempted a kiss for the third time. The fire, which had been blazing merrily in the fireplace, spontaneously grew higher. It crackled and hissed with angry muttering and sparking. The hearthrug was in danger of being set alight. Sherlock lowered his hand and the fire went back to normal.

 

“Definitely enemy action. Someone does not want me to kiss you. Of course, that just makes me want to do so even more. I shall have to think on this.” He lay back on the couch and assumed his previous position.

 

There came a timid knock upon the door.

 

Taking no notice, Sherlock continued to lie upon the sofa.

 

The knock came again.

 

Still nothing.

 

With a clearing of his throat, John asked,” Are you going to get that or shall I?”

 

“Hmmm? You can.”

 

“Ummmm…”

 

“Oh, what is it now? I suppose you are going to say it’s not your place or I should do it because I called them here.”

 

“No. I was going to say I wouldn’t be able to reach the knob.”

 

“Why did you offer?”

 

“I was being sarcastic.”

 

“Oh.”

 

The third knock came a little more forcefully.

 

“Enter,” Sherlock called.

 

The door was opened by a flustered servant. He was thin and short. He had black hair slicked back and dark eyes.

 

He bowed to Sherlock and said, “You rang, your Highness?”

 

“Yes, clean up that,” he waved his hand airily toward the mess upon the floor. Sherlock sat up again and took a second look at the servant. “You’re new.”

 

The servant bowed again, “Yes, you Highness. I just transferred here from a different castle. I am Jim, sir, Jim from up near the river Tynne, sir, near the inner bank. We call it IT for short, so Jim, sir, Jim from IT.”

 

“You talk too much. Clear the mess and be gone.”

 

“Sir, yes sir. Very good, sir.” The servant set to work. He made several trips out to the hall and back again, hands full of items from the breakfast table. With the occasional dropped piece of cutlery and a near miss with a teacup, he cleaned and cleared the table and reset it with a fresh cloth in a relatively short time.

 

He was about to leave after he placed a large vase of flowers upon the table when he noticed John sitting upon Sherlock’s chest watching the proceedings with his bright, blue eyes. A noise squeaked out of Jim’s mouth.

 

“Sir, there’s a…there’s a toad on your chest! Shall I kill it for you?” He lifted up the broom with which he had swept the floor.

 

Startled, Sherlock sat up and held John closer to his chest. He raised a hand to grab the broom if needed from Jim.

 

“No! Don’t you dare! This is John. He is my frog, and none shall harm him! You shall be hurt if you do!”

 

Jim lowered the broom and bowed again. “Terribly sorry, sir. I didn’t know. Please forgive me.”

 

“You may go!” Sherlock lay back on the sofa; Jim dismissed from his mind almost immediately as he closed his eyes.

 

If you hadn’t been watching for it, you might have missed a strange look, which slid upon the servant’s face, just for a fraction of a second. Eyes black as coal glittered as he shot John a glance full of hate and envy. It was gone before it could fully form. So quick John wasn’t sure he had seen it and debated whether or not to mention it at all. He thought that the servant had a mighty crush on Prince Sherlock. He really couldn’t blame him.

 

With more bowing and scraping, Jim backed out of the door, closing it behind him.

 

“You could have been a little nicer.”

 

“Not my area.”

 

“He was nervous.”

 

“He needs to learn his place.”

 

“His place?”

 

“Yes, his place. He is a servant. I am a prince. He is not to talk to me, and he is to come into my room silently. I shouldn’t even be aware he is there.”

 

“He likes you.”

 

“Of course, he does. I am me. And he is gay. You can tell by the way he wears his breechclout and that it is an unpleasant colour of green. Of course, that’s could be because he doesn’t wash as often as he should. Peasants,” Sherlock sniffed.

 

If Sherlock had his eyes open, he would have seen that John was glaring at him. Glaring the way only a frog can.

 

“Not kind, Sherlock.”

 

“It’s the way things are, John. Peasants need to know their place. It wouldn’t help them in any way if I were to give into false attitudes.”

 

A low muttering came from John, but Sherlock ignored it.

 

It became quiet, and Prince Sherlock seemed to settle his long frame further into the cushions. In spite of the draft coming in through the window, it felt warm and cosy. Sherlock’s chest rose and fell in a nice rhythmic manner that was quite soothing and John was beginning to feel sleepy. The breathing coming from the body underneath him was deep, steady and there was a soft wheezing sound originating from Sherlock’s mouth.

 

A firm, insistent knock landed upon the door, startling the sleepers.

 

“Oh, for God’s sake! What is this? Do people think they can just knock whenever they want? Who the hell is it this time?” Sherlock sat up quickly, dislodging John from his chest to land in his lap.

 

“Your Highness, it is I, Sir Gregory. Sorry to disturb you but you are needed in the stables.”

 

“Not now Lestrade. I am terribly busy. Come back later.”

 

“You are not ‘terribly busy,'” hissed John. “You’re napping!”

 

“I’m not napping. I am thinking!”

 

“I swear I heard snoring.”

 

“That was you!”

 

The polite knock turned into a pounding.

 

“Prince Sherlock! You must come! Something has happened.”

 

With a put upon moan, Prince Sherlock yelled, “Enter.”

 

The door swung open, revealing not a lowly servant, but a gentleman, older than Prince Sherlock, slightly older than the King, but with the distinguished air of someone born to command. He was dressed in the uniform of Captain of the Guard and carried a sword, sheathed in a leather scabbard. The words Silver Fox were intricately tooled on the surface. As he entered the room, an errant beam of sunlight fell on his head, and the air surrounding him seemed to glow. There may have been a chorus of angels singing as well.

 

“Please your Highness; you are needed most urgently in the stables. Will you come?”

 

“Oh, what is it this time? Anderson can’t find his sword? Or Sally was caught fighting in the pub again? She has nothing to prove. She has already shown everyone she can do better than any man, certainly better than Anderson.”

 

“No, not that. And leave Anderson alone. He may not be your favourite, but he has his moments. There’s something you need to see. Will you come?”

 

“Is it murder?”

 

“No.”

 

“Inside a locked stall?”

 

“No.”

 

“And no possible means for the murderer to have escaped?”

 

“No. Your Highness, you can get out of a stall. Quite easily. It has openings.”

 

“Missing treasure?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then I shan’t.” Sherlock pouted and collapsed on the couch, placing John carefully on the armrest.

 

“But your Highness…ummm…is that a toad?”

 

“Frog!” yelled Sherlock, as John said, “Man.”

 

“Okay, which is it? And hang on you talk? ‘Cause see here’s the thing, at the stables…”

 

Sherlock interrupted, “Of course he can talk. He is remarkable, and he is under an enchantment, and he is far more interesting than anything you have to show me at the stables.”

 

“Okay,” said Lestrade. “Um, anyway, you need to see this. You may have a talking frog, but I’ve got a talking horse.”

 

“Horses don’t talk. They neigh or bra-ha-ha or something.”

 

“Bra-ha-ha?”

 

“Shut up, John. I don’t like horses. I don’t trust them. Dangerous at both ends and crafty in the middle.”

 

“She sings opera,” said Lestrade.

 

Sherlock sat up again, excitement on his face. “Opera? What are you waiting for! Let’s go!” He rushed past Lestrade but left John on the couch. Lestrade and John stared at each other in the awkward way men and amphibians do.

 

“So, you’re a frog.”

 

“And you’re a fox.”

 

Lestrade blushed. “It was a gift, from a friend.”

 

“Okay.”

 

There was another uncomfortable silence.

 

“So Prince Sherlock likes opera, does he?”

 

“Jawn,” drawled the impatient voice of Sherlock, as he rushed back into the room. “Oh, right, come on then.” He reached down and carefully lifted John up off the couch and placed him in his pocket once more. With his head just clearing the top of the pocket, John hung on tight as Sherlock raced back through the door.

 

Lestrade stood there for a minute, blinking. “Right, I’ll just follow along, shall I?” Shrugging, he chased after them.

 

Arriving at the stables, Lestrade came just in time to see Prince Sherlock ducking as he avoided being kicked by an over excited and agitated horse.

 

“Be careful, your Highness. She tried to brain one of my officers.”

 

“Yes, well thank you for the warning.” Holding up his hands, he spoke calmly to the horse. “There, there, nice horsey. I’m here to find out what happened.” The horse stopped her plunging and stood trembling, watching as Prince Sherlock came closer. Cautiously he placed a gentle hand on her neck. John was impressed with how he was handling the horse in spite of the fact that he did not like horses. The horse’s neck was sweaty, covered with lather, but her eyes had lost some of their wild look.

 

“Shhh, there now. What is your name?”

 

Ears flicked forward, surprised to be addressed in so pleasant a manner. “Adler. Irene Adler.”

 

_To be continued…_

 


	5. In Which Prince Sherlock Discovers John is a Jealous Frog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well – hmmm – it’s been a while since I updated this one – I am sorry:) It just wasn’t cooperating:) I think there will be about 2 more chapters.  
> Thanks to mattsloved1 for looking this over:D

“Irene Adler the famous Opera singer?”

 

The horse stopped her nervous twitches and turned her head toward Sherlock. Her large eyes batted at him, and she almost made kissy noises. “Why yes. Are you a fan?”

 

“No, actually I am not. I find your performances lack a certain realism relevant to the parts you portray, and you tend to dominate every scene causing the performance to lose its balance. I do, however, applaud your ability to make the other performers look like fools.”

 

Miss Adler snapped her teeth at Sherlock.

 

“Uh, Sherlock, you might want to remember she’s a tad dangerous in this form.”

 

“I’m dangerous in any form,” she said.

 

Sherlock shuffled back a bit. “So Miss Adler, pray tell us what happened. And be brief, concise and expedient. Did you happen to notice a blue light before you became a horse?”

 

“Why yes, I believe I did.”

 

“Just like you, John. Intriguing.”

 

“That frog talks,” said Irene, nodding her head in John’s direction.

 

“How observant of you. I’m not sure why you are surprised considering your recent transformation. Doctor John Watson was turned into a frog approximately two weeks ago. And when did you meet your unfortunate accident?”

 

“Last night. I was on my way to a friend’s house.”

 

“A friend?”

 

“Not that it is any of your business.”

 

“Of course, it’s my business. I need information to discover who did this to you and presumably to John. Now, details please. I cannot make bricks without clay.”

 

A neigh of annoyance, a swish of her tail and Miss Adler tried again.

 

“As I was saying, I walked to a friend’s house last night.”

 

“Why were you going to this friend’s house?”

 

“To play games.”

 

“Games?”

 

“Yes, all sorts of games. Do you want me to tell you my story or not?”

 

“I like Monopoly,” piped up John. Glancing at John, it struck Sherlock that he almost sounded jealous. With a sense of mischief in mind, he stared at Miss Adler with his beautiful multihued eyes and a slightly pensive but fetching expression on his face. Oh yes, this would work. The reproachful pout John gave him sent shivers down his spine.

 

“Not those kind of games, Frog-boy. As I was saying, I went to see a friend. I decided to take a shortcut and headed down the alleyway beside her house to save myself the walk. I stopped about halfway because I could see a figure standing in the doorway toward the end of the alley. It was a man; I could tell by his voice. He was muttering strange words. A blue light surrounded me, and I passed out. When I awoke, I was a horse. I made my way to the stables of the King because I had heard tales of the amazing things his brother could do, how he could solve mysteries. I waited until dawn, and when the stable hands came in, I tried to speak with one of them, but he thought I was a demon and possessed. I only started rearing and kicking so no one could hurt me. Then you came in, Your Highness. With the talking frog.”

 

“Hmmm, interesting, so you visit a friend, who is, in fact, more than a friend, no need to be coy, we’re all adults and frogs. How do I know this? You did not head down the alley to save steps but to avoid being seen and possibly recognised. You did not wish anyone to see you as it may have caused difficulties with their significant other. This friend is quite special to you. Under other circumstances, you don’t very much mind if others see you in compromising situations or if there is gossip about your assignations. It adds to the allure that surrounds you, helps to sell your performances. If you wish for me to help you, you must cease this ridiculous subterfuge and continue your account in a more candid manner.”

 

Irene snorted. “You, dear boy, are exceedingly clever, aren’t you? How dreadfully sexy. We could have so much fun together and when I say fun…”

 

“Yes, well, hmm, yes, shall we continue?”

 

“If we must.”

 

“You did not recognize the person who attacked you?”

 

“No. I said it was very dark. I am rather surprised I have to repeat myself. You seem the type who doesn’t like to be bored.”

 

“Just clarifying and the repetition is for John so that he can keep up. Can you show us the alley? There may still be clues to the identity of your assailant.”

 

Irene nodded causing her flowing mane to float and twist through the air.

 

Sherlock batted his eyes at her. “You’re so…swishy.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Ahem,” said John.

 

“Hmm, yes, what is it, uh…”

 

“John.”

 

“I know your name!”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Don’t be an idiot.”

 

“Hey!”

 

“Don’t worry. Most people are.”

 

“I would agree with that, Your Highness,” said Irene.

 

Sherlock pulled down on his jacket and smoothed back his hair. A small sigh drifted up from his pocket. It was so easy to see what John was thinking. He could read it on his cute little froggy face. _What hope do I, a small frog have, especially one with a dodgy leg and a gamy jumper? I will never be worthy of Handsome Prince Sherlock._

 

“We should see the alley now,” said John.

 

“Yes, correct. After you, Miss Adler.”

 

They walked out of the stables, through the courtyard of the castle and the portcullis and across the drawbridge. A feeling of comfort suffused Sherlock as he thought about John nestled in his pocket. It felt comforting and right. It wouldn’t do to have him sit anywhere else. He glanced down and saw John eyeing the moat and visibly swallowing. His pocket vibrated a bit with John’s shaking.

 

“There aren’t.”

 

“Sorry?”

 

“Alligators. In the moat. Too cold.”

 

“Oh. Right.”

 

“There’s some rather nasty fish in there though and a heron or two. They probably like frogs.”

 

“Um, thanks, I’ll just hide in here until we’re across.”

 

Sherlock smiled.

 

Walking at a brisk pace to the alley, he felt confident some clues would still be there. Chatting amiably with Miss Adler to help the time pass, he noticed that his conversation with her made John crazy. They spoke of the weather, the opera, the way ordinary human beings seemed to think it was perfectly acceptable to gaze upon them as they travelled through London. Somehow or other they got into a discussion about whips and their application. Miss Adler seemed to have a specific preference for them as a horse and as a human.

 

John practically fumed in his pocket. “Hamish,” he squeaked at them. “Hamish,” he repeated in a slightly deeper voice.

 

“Pardon me?” asked Irene.

 

“What are you twittering about? And what happened to your voice?”

 

“John Hamish Watson, if you’re looking for baby names.”

 

“Are you quite all right, John?”

 

“Just fine!” John said, his frustration evident

 

On reaching the alley, Sherlock put John down on the ground, close to the wall so he'd be out of the way and not get trampled. He asked Miss Adler to show him exactly where she’d stood when she had seen the figure. Looking up and down the alley, he then paced the length and paused at the halfway mark she indicated. Returning to John and Miss Adler, he shouted an excited, “Aha! Miss Adler, you are an exceptional horse, er, woman. You are indeed beautiful, but you are cold, ruthless and a terrible liar.”

 

“On the contrary, my dear Prince. I am an excellent liar. My story brought you here did it not?”

 

“What’s going on?” John asked

 

“John, don’t you see?”

 

“Well, no actually, I don’t. I’m on the ground!”

 

“Of course.” He carefully placed John on his hand and held him up. “Look toward the end of the alleyway.”

 

“Well, I see a drunk peasant passed out on the ground and a pile of refuse, no wait, that’s another peasant and a water barrel and…”

 

“Yes, but do you see the doorway?”

 

“Um, no? Should I?”

 

“Yes! Miss Adler said she could see a figure in the doorway. In broad daylight you cannot see it from this position, the wall here curves and the doorway is just after the curve. It is impossible to see it from this location.” He carefully placed John, back on the ground so he could confront Irene with full hand gestures. He raised his finger to do some mighty pointing.

 

“Very clever, Prince Sherlock. You are indeed correct. I did not become a horse in this alleyway, nor was I enchanted against my will. I did it, in fact, to capture you.”

 

John stood up a bit on his hind legs, readying himself for a fight. “Now see here…!”

 

“Stow it, Kermit! I’m sure you will understand, your Highness, it’s not personal, it’s just business.”

 

Sherlock glanced the other way down the alley, but someone now stood there, blocking the exit.

 

“Jim?”

 

It was lowly servant Jim. _What’s he doing here? He should be back at the castle doing whatever it is servants do. And how come he’s wearing a nicer suit than me?_

 

“Mwahahahaoriarty!” Jim laughed.

 

“Perhaps you should see the Royal Physician and have that looked at.”

 

“Ooh hoo! Sherlock, baby, you sooo did not see this coming.”

 

“You are awfully familiar for someone who cleans the Royal toilets and picks up my socks.”

 

“Typical. So very typical.”

 

“What is?”

 

“You are. Mr. ‘I’m better than everyone else!’. Prince “I’m too good for peasants.’ Mr….”

 

“Yes, yes, I’m sensing a theme. How dull.”

 

“Who’s dull?”

 

“You are.”

 

“I’ll show you who’s dull.”

 

“Please don’t bother.”

 

“No Sherlock, someone needs to put you in your place. Someone needs to take you and your insufferable brother down and restore order to the land.”

 

“And I suppose that someone is you?”

 

“When I am finished with you and your brother, the peasants will revolt and demand that I be their new Benevolent Leader. I will show them what a kind and understanding Emperor I can be, just before I execute the lot of them.”

 

“I’m sorry,” said John. “I seem to be missing something. You? You’re the one who turned me into a frog? But why?”

 

“Oh, Johnny boy. It’s not about you. You were merely a test subject. You happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and I was trying out my spells. It worked, though! Look at you! Such a brave little frog! You’d better get used to eating flies, my dear. I lied to you before when I told you meeting a Prince would turn you back. You were just there for a distraction, and now you’ve served your purpose. And it was rather fun.” He lifted his foot and kicked John across the ally.

 

John hit the brick wall, slid down and croaked, “That’s two!” before losing consciousness.

 

“No!” Sherlock cried out. Having never actually punched anyone before, being a Prince all of his life, he usually had servants who beat up people for him. He swung at Jim and missed. Miss Adler kicked back with a hoof, and Sherlock joined John in heap at the base of the alley wall.

 

Sometime later, he awoke with a groan and a massive headache. Pulling himself into a sitting position, he checked his surroundings. It looked like he was in a circular stone room of some sort, perhaps a tower. Judging by the angle and amount of the light coming in the window it was late afternoon. He had been out for quite a while. There was a pile of clean straw underneath him with an old blanket on top, preventing the straw from poking him. A small bucket sat near the door beside a plate holding a loaf of bread and an apple. On the far side of the room was a slightly larger bucket with a lid.

 

“Well, that is just not cricket. And speaking of crickets, John? John, where are you?”

 

Sherlock searched the straw and his pockets. It took all of five minutes to hunt the rest of the room. Although John was small, there was no place for him to hide. Heart in his throat, Sherlock knew he was utterly alone.

 

His head was pounding, and his vision was swimming in and out. Carefully making his way across the room, he looked in the small bucket beside the plate. It was filled with water. _At least they aren’t planning on killing me just yet._ He took a cautious sip and after a few minutes, it did not come back up, so he took another one. Sitting down again, with his back against the wall, he placed his head in his hands.

 

For the first time in his life, he didn’t think about himself. All he could think about was a small frog who wore an ugly and soggy oatmeal jumper.

 

“Please be safe, John,” he whispered to the empty room.

_To be continued..._


	6. In Which John Saves the Day or At Least Sherlock

Sherlock sat on the blanket on top of the straw. It felt surprisingly soft under his derriere considering he usually plunked his pert bottom on goose down and satin. He had his knees drawn up to his chin; his arms wrapped around his legs and he rocked slightly, back and forth.

 

_I will not panic; I will not panic._

 

Sitting and rocking, he tried very hard not to think too much about what could have happened to John. He had seen him flung through the air, hit the wall and slide down. John had croaked out a simple phrase of “That’s two.”

 

_He’s such a small frog. It can’t be good for him to keep hitting walls like that._

 

There seemed to be a voice in his head trying to tell him something. It seemed to be telling him he might, possibly, be worried about John. He might, possibly, be afraid John had been irreparably damaged and that he might, possibly never see him again.

 

_John has to be okay. John is my friend. John is my only friend. Please be okay._

 

He looked up. The sudden realization of John’s importance stopped him completely from worrying about himself for all of one hundred twenty-five point two-six seconds.

 

John held importance for him.

 

_John._

 

He frowned. Someone who was not he might be more important to him than being rescued from a tower.

 

_Weird._

 

A slightly odd noise caught his attention. He lifted his head and looked around. Frowning, not able to place it, he put his head back on his knees and went back to thinking of himself. He shouldn’t be blamed for that, however, as he hadn’t ever thought of someone else for so long before.

 

_I will not panic; I will not panic._

 

He stopped. Again he heard the noise. It seemed to come from the window above his head. If he stood tall and went up on his toes, he could reach the ledge, but he couldn’t see out. He stood beneath it and listened carefully. He could hear much better here.

 

It sounded like someone humming, no, singing. It sounded like someone singing nonsense words.

 

“Dun, dun, dun, dun, dun, dun, dun, dun, dun, dun, dun, dun, dun, dun, dun, dun, da-da-da, da-da-da, da-da-da, da-da, da-dum!”

 

On the ‘da-dum’ there was a faint plopping sound and a cheerful voice called out, “Ta-da!”

 

Sherlock looked up at the window ledge. If he could have seen his face at that precise moment, he wouldn’t have recognized himself. “John! You’re alive!”

 

“Yes, I am! How are you, Sherlock? Keeping well? Nice room you have here. You should see the view.”

 

“John!”

 

“Sherlock!”

 

“Why are you so cheerful? I am locked in a room in a tower; you are still a frog, although I must say you did a marvelous job of climbing here! How did you manage?”

 

“Surprisingly well, thanks. It's a relatively old tower; there were lots of places I could put my tiny, little froggy fingers. Also, it helps I have these amazing suction cup thingies on the ends of them that have super grip action.”

 

“I am happy to see you, but how are we going to get out?”

 

“Hmmm, I had hoped you'd worked that part out already.”

 

“Not really.”

 

“Help me down and perhaps we can hatch a plan.”

 

Sherlock lifted up his hand and let John hop onto it. He lowered him to eye level. “I am inordinately pleased to see you. I must admit, I feared the worst when you hit the wall.”

 

“Thanks, Sherlock. I am really glad to see you too. Don’t worry about me. It’s all part of the plan.”

 

“It is?”

 

“It really is.

 

“I should like to kiss you.” Then Sherlock clapped the frog-free hand over his mouth. “I…I…I don’t know why I said that! That’s the second time I’ve really wanted to kiss you.”

 

John blushed, Sherlock could tell because his skin turned several shades darker. Intriguing.

 

“I would like you to kiss me too, Sherlock, but not just yet. Can you wait?”

 

“If I must, but can’t you tell me why?”

 

John looked a bit sad for a moment. “No Sherlock, you have to figure it out for yourself.”

 

“Well, seeing as I am the smartest person in this tower, I really should be able to do that.”

 

He continued to hold John in one hand but lifted his other up into his thinking position. He closed his eyes and stood there for several minutes.

 

“Anything?”

 

“Shush.”

 

“How about now?”

 

“Shhhhhh!”

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“John, be quiet!”

 

John opened his mouth to say something else when Sherlock’s eyes opened, and his mouth made a perfectly round ‘O’ shape that made John think unfroggy thoughts.

 

“Aha! I know the answer! I need to throw you against the wall again. You’ve hit the wall twice and each time you’ve counted out the number. These things always happen in threes so therefore if I throw you against the wall a third time that will break the spell. Who writes these things anyway? Stupid really, what a completely idiotic idea to throw a perfectly good frog against a wall. I mean, what if I hadn’t thought of it? Obviously, if you had said anything, it would have prevented the spell from being broken. You could have gone about the rest of your life as a frog because no one knew…”

 

“Sherlock.”

 

“…that you had to be thrown against the wall.”

 

“Sherlock!”

 

“What?”

 

“Just do it, okay?”

 

Looking at him closely, Sherlock noticed John held his eyes tightly closed. “Are you sure?”

 

“I can’t really say either way.”

 

“Oh, all right. Here goes.” Sherlock hesitated but them gently lobbed John through the air. He hit the wall and slid down, where he landed head first, with his little legs above him.

 

“That’s three,” he croaked.

 

A puff of smoke and a flash and in place of the frog, a slightly rumpled, upside-down man stood on his head against the wall. He let his legs drop to the floor and climbed to his knees, shook his head a bit before standing up.

 

“Ow! That last one hurt.”

 

“John? Is that you?” Sherlock finally got a good look at him.

 

He had short blond hair, mixed with grey and merry blue eyes, that had a slightly bulgy look to them, probably as a result of being a frog all of this time. His cute little nose turned up a bit at the tip and put Sherlock in mind of a hedgehog. He was short, shorter than him, but not too short. Just the right size to kiss him on the forehead without too much bending and he could easily lay his arm across his shoulders and hug him if he wanted a hug. At the moment he looked like he could use a good hug and perhaps a kiss too, so Sherlock crossed the floor and put his hands on John’s shoulders and bent down and kissed him.

 

Sherlock had not had a lot of experience kissing, didn’t know until he met John whether or not he’d actually like it, but kissing John answered that question. He did like it. Very much. As long as the one he kissed was John.

 

He closed his eyes and pulled him closer. John’s arms reached around his waist, and he pulled Sherlock closer to him, too. Sherlock cracked his eyes a bit to see if John looked like he might be enjoying himself and yes he did indeed. His eyes closed and he gave back quite expertly. John obviously had experience. A little surge of jealousy flared up in Sherlock’s chest, but he tamped down on it. John belonged to him now, no one else would be allowed to kiss him. He’d ask his git of a brother to make it a law if he had to.

 

Then it got better. John did this thing, this little flick of a tongue thing and brushed the tip of it against Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock gasped a bit, and a shiver went down his spine. Now that was interesting! When Sherlock gasped, John gently let his tongue enter Sherlock’s mouth and take up residence. John’s tongue quite cleverly explored all the nooks and cranies of Sherlock’s mouth. Oh, my! The things John did with his tongue and his mouth and the fact that John had just laid a hand on Sherlock’s bottom and gently kneaded it, well! Parts of Sherlock’s body he had thought long dead and buried woke up and may have given a little wave. He didn’t know he could do that. Blood rapidly diverted from his brain cavity to this particular spot and made it fill out and ache and get hard, and it waved a little bit more. But even better, so much better, John’s did the same. He could feel it against his leg.

 

Sherlock moaned. John groaned. After a few tries, they synchronized their moaning and groaning. Sherlock thought he’d never heard a sweeter sound.

 

Finally, reluctantly, John let go of Sherlock’s mouth, looked up at him with his eyes more black that blue. Sherlock could see the pulse beating rapidly in John’s neck. He placed a hand on his own neck. His pulse had definitely learned a few new dance moves.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“Yes, John?” His voice sounded lower, huskier, sexier, more chocolaty and smoky than ever before.

 

“I would dearly love to continue you kissing you. I would love to take you and lay you down on the straw. I want to undress you slowly, spread you out and have my way, your way and probably all of the Kingdom’s way, with you, but we really should get out of this tower and try to stop Moriarty’s evil plan.”

 

“Oh, right, yes, I suppose I should get us out of here, now. That would be a good thing.”

 

He stepped back from John, adjusted his tight pants, which had less room in them than usual and walked to the door. Looking at it, he hummed a bit, reached into his flowing locks and pulled out a hairpin.

 

“A hairpin? Really? You have a hairpin?”

 

“Yes, I always keep a hairpin in my hair. You never know when you might need one.”

 

“All right.”

 

“What?”

 

“Well, it seems if you have a hairpin, you might have tried it by now.”

 

“Yes, well, I didn’t think of it.”

 

“You? The Great Prince Sherlock?”

 

“I’m doing my best!”

 

“Not judging.”

 

“You sound like you are.”

 

“I’m not! Stop pouting.”

 

“Or what?”

 

“Or I’ll kiss you again!”

 

Sherlock’s lip inched out a bit more. John stepped up to him, grabbed him and kissed the pout right off of him.

 

“Really John, you’re interrupting my work.” The tiny little smug smile on Sherlock’s face suggested he didn’t mind that much.

 

Bending down to the lock on the door, he spent a few minutes jimmying the hairpin in the hole. After a minute or two, he stood up, sighed and tossed the pin behind him.

 

“No good?”

 

“No, of course not. It’s a hairpin, John, Not a key.”

 

“Oh, okay.”

 

They looked at the door a few minutes longer.

 

“Now what?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

Suddenly they heard the sound of footsteps coming up the tower.

 

“Quick John, stand on that side of the door. No one will see you when they open it. We’ll have the element of surprise!”

 

“Right!” John plastered himself against the wall.

 

Moments later the door flung open, banged against the wall and therefore John.

 

“Ow!”

 

“Shhhh!”

 

Before they could say or do anything else, someone unexpected came into the room.

 

_To be continued…_

 


	7. In Which Prince Sherlock Finally Gets Some

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is! The final chapter of this ridiculously silly fic! Thank you all for your patience in waiting for this story to end! Especially thank you & profuse apologies to Mrs. Noggin as this was her birthday present 2 years ago :)
> 
> Thanks to mattsloved1 for reading this last chapter over & for finding the picture of the bed to provide inspiration & which I used in this chapter XD

[ ](http://s1323.photobucket.com/user/MapleleafCameo/media/bed%20copy_zpsz9vsczr3.jpg.html)

The door crashed open and into John’s nose.

 

“Ow!”

 

“Shh!”

 

Before they could say or do anything else, someone unexpected came into the room.

 

“Prince Sherlock! Are you all right? I’m here to rescue you.”

 

John, rubbing his squished nose, said, “Been there, done that.”

 

“Lestrade! What are you doing here?”

 

The moment Sir Gregory stepped through the door, the requisite shaft of sunlight fell through the window and landed on him, causing his armor to glow, and a soft halo of light graced his head. The angel chorus ramped up the music and a shout of ‘Hallelujah’ reverberated through the air.

 

“Hello.”

 

“How did you know where we were? It’s not like you to figure these things out!”

 

“Ta for that. You weren’t around to bother Myc…I mean His Majesty so he thought I should look for you. Asked around. Someone said they’d seen you trussed up and taken prisoner. I wasn’t impressed they hadn’t come to the castle to inform anyone, but then I figured no one likes you that much.”

 

“Yes, very well. Let’s go. Come John.”

 

“What? No thanks for rescuing you?”

 

“We were very close to escaping ourselves. It was just a matter of time.”

 

John came out from behind the door, still rubbing his nose. “You know, that whole door thing, swinging open and revealing someone, does that happen to you a lot?” he asked Sherlock. Turning the other way, he added, “Thank you, Sir Gregory.”

 

“Hang on a minute. Who are you?”

 

“Oh, do keep up. I mentioned his name.”

 

“You’re John?”

 

“I’m John. Captain John Watson at your service.”

 

“But weren’t you a frog?”

 

“I got better.”

 

Sherlock groaned impatiently. “We don’t have time for this. We need to find Moriarty before he does something much worse or possibly amusing.”

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

“How on earth do you put your armor on in the morning? Are you really that slow? What does Mycroft see in you?”

 

“Sherlock! Be nice!”

 

“I don’t want to know what you do with my brother, so don’t bother explaining. Jim, the servant, is Jim Moriarty. He is the one responsible for John being turned into a frog. He also, with her permission, turned Irene Adler into a horse. His next target is my brother. You remember him the one you bed…”

 

“That’s enough,” said Sir Gregory.

 

“Right, follow me.”

 

“Where are we going?” asked John.

 

“To find Jim Moriarty.”

 

“And you know where he is?”

 

“Of course! He threatened my brother so obviously he’s back at the castle and is preparing to turn Mycroft into, I don’t know, a goldfish or something or he already has. “

 

“You’re sure about this?”

 

“Of course. It’s what I would do if I were an evil master criminal bent on destroying the monarchy. Besides, he wrote it on the wall over there.” Sherlock pointed to the tower wall, where a message in messy paint had been written. ‘Gone to turn your brother into a goldfish, Sherlock! Try and stop me. Mwahahahaoriarty!’ “To the castle!”

 

Setting a rapid pace, Sherlock made straight for the castle and marched across the drawbridge, followed closely by John and Sir Gregory.

 

They entered the castle and into the throne room in time to see Jim standing in front of King Mycroft with what looked like a cabbage.

 

“…and that, Your Majesty, is how in a matter of moments you will be gasping for air. If you are wondering why I am doing this to you, know that I have been kicked around since I was born, and now it’s all right, it’s okay, but you won’t look the other way, while you try to understand the magic effect on you…highness. Doesn’t rhyme but I don’t care.” He span around and sang, “Ah, ha, ha, ha staying alive, staying alive,” whilst King Mycroft looked at Jim Moriarty with a bored expression on his face.

 

“There is nothing worse than a petty, small minded villain trying to dance like it’s the ‘70s. Please spare us your dreary explanations of how you intend to end our existence and get on with it.” He looked up as the three men entered the throne room. “Ah, gentlemen, just in time.”

 

Moriarty stopped dancing and turned toward the door. “No! How did you escape? You weren’t meant to get away!”

 

“That’s quite possibly one of the most ridiculous things you’ve said. If you hadn’t intended for me to escape, you wouldn’t have left that message telling me where you were headed.”

 

“Yeah, all right! You know what they say about genius. I dooo sooo love an audience. Now watch helplessly while I turn your brother into a goldfish!”

 

He waved the cabbage in the air and made a motion as if he was going to smash it on the ground.

 

John leaned over to Sherlock. “Did he have a cabbage last time?”

 

“No, I don’t think so.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Sir Gregory drew his sword and moved forward to run Moriarty through, but Sherlock stopped him.

 

“He’s going to hurt the King! Let me go!”

 

“Ah no, see,” said John “you get to save him after by throwing him against a wall three times and then kissing him.”

 

“I thought you weren't supposed to tell him about the throwing against the wall thing?”

 

“Nah, I just wanted you to work for it.”

 

“Ah.”

 

“What are you two talking about?”

 

“Let Molarity turn him into a goldfish. You can save him and then you know…” John waggled his eyebrows.

 

Sir Gregory rolled his eyes and rushed forward. Moriarty distracted by all the unnecessary hand gestures didn’t see him lift his sword and then slam it on the back of Moriarty’s head.

 

“Oww! That hurt! You know that was just mean!”

 

“Save it!” He gave a shout of “Guards!” and his men rushed into the throne room and trussed Moriarty up.

 

“Take him away,” motioned the King. “Sir Gregory, come here. Kneel before us.” The King looked down at him with what in a dim light could be construed as fondness. “We are pleased with your work here today capturing the villain, Moriarty who threatened our life. Hand me your sword.” King Mycroft took the sword and placed the tip on Sir Gregory’s shoulders. “You are already a Knight and Captain of the guard, but now I also add another title. Arise, Sir Gregory, Guard of the Royal Bedchamber.”

 

“Eww!” said Sherlock. “Not something I needed to witness.”

 

It seemed that Jim Moriarty hadn't finished, however. “You may have defeated me this time, Prince Sherlock, but I will have my revenge!”

 

“What are you gibbering about now?”

 

“You may think you have saved Johnny, boy, but my curse is too strong!”

 

“Yeah, um, but I’m me again, so your little curse doesn’t work anymore.”

 

“He kissed you didn’t he?”

 

“Yes, but…”

 

“And you were thrown against the wall three times, weren’t you?”

 

“Yes but…”

 

“‘Yes but, yes but.’ There’s a third part to breaking the spell. All good things happen in threes. And it is so horrible, so awful, so soul withering, you my dear, will turn back into a frog at sunrise, and there won’t be any way to break the spell again.” He threw back his head and laughed maniacally. A flash of light and a peal of thunder echoed outside in the courtyard.

 

Sherlock and John looked at each other. John shrugged. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “We know you’re dying to tell us so get on with it.”

 

Moriarty giggled some more. “Oh but it’s so perfect, you see, this worked out even better than I thought. Because the person who kisses the victim has to sleep with them. I know your poor virgin ears won’t understand so I will spell it out for you. What it means, my dear, is that have to have s-e-x with the good Doctor to save his mighty fine arse and seeing as how we all know you’re as frigid as an icicle…”

 

‘That’s it? That’s easy! Let’s go, John.”

 

“Now hang on!”

 

“Wait! What? You mean you want to have sex,” Moriarty waved his arms flailingly in John’s direction, “with him? And his awful jumpers! You’ll get warts!”

 

“Hey! I’m not a frog anymore. And that’s a myth.”

 

“Oh Jim, can’t you see you’ve given me the one person I can have sex with, look forward to having sex with,” Sherlock stepped closer to Moriarty. “With whom I will thoroughly enjoy having sex. I must thank you, but forgive me if I don’t touch your hand to shake it. Without your intervention I would never have met John, never have fallen in love with him and never have desperately wanted to get him naked and in my bed.” Sherlock turned and snapped his fingers. “John! Now!”

 

“I was just kidding! You don’t need to have sex! No…let go of me!” he yelled.

 

“Too late! I’m going to have all of the sex!”

 

Ignoring a sputtering and gagging Moriarty as he was lead away by the Guard, Sherlock started to jog toward the staircase. He didn’t get very far when it dawned on him that John was not following. He turned to see him in the same spot, not having moved, with a small frown on his face.

 

“John, what are you waiting for, time is of the essence, let’s go so we can, you know…”

 

“No, I don’t think so.”

 

Sherlock’s mouth fell open a bit. “You don’t think so? Don’t you want to?” And he jerked his head toward the stairs.

 

“Yes, I do actually.” John stepped closer. “I want to make slow, sweet, passionate love to you but not. Like. This.”

 

“What do you mean?” Sherlock tapped his foot impatiently. “John, I’m not sure how well I’ll perform seeing as I’ve never done this before, and since it’s Moriarty we’re talking about, I think I should make you orgasm at least three times and to be on the safe side I probably should as well…”

 

“Stop, just stop.” John placed a careful hand over Sherlock’s mouth. “I want you to stop talking for a change, and I want you to listen.” He went up on his toes, moved his hand out of the way and pecked Sherlock on the lips. “Yes, I want to have sex with you. Yes, I would rather like to try to make each other orgasm at least three times, and I would love to spend the rest of my days making you orgasm a whole bunch more. However,” he took a deep breath. “However, I would like to have a bit of wooing first. And perhaps a touch of romance.” He stepped back and nodded once.

 

“You want to be wooed?”

 

“Yes, I think I would.”

 

“You want romance?”

 

John nodded again. “Yeah, you know, a candlelit dinner, soft music, the moon and stars. Romance. Tell me you want to have me, hold me. Tell me you want this night, our first time, to be special. Whisper sweet nothings into my ear.”

 

“Oh, come on, John. You need to have sex to break the spell! It’s not like there’s another cure here.” He pouted, stomped his foot and sighed heavily. “Very well! Please, please, please, come up to my room and let me undress you and see what you’re hiding under that awful jumper?”

 

“Nope.”

 

Sherlock frowned. No one ever said no to him, not when it was important, not when it was something he desperately wanted.

 

“Fine! Erg! I will see what I can do.” He stormed off, yelling, “Lady Hudson!”

 

John made himself comfortable and waited.

 

oOo

 

John’s head started nodding as he began to fall asleep. A lot had happened in the last few weeks and being turned into a frog, his lack of proper rest, wall climbing skills, daring-do and amorous attention to the lady frogs was beginning to catch up.

 

“John!”

 

“Hmmm? What?” Sherlock stood over him, shaking his shoulder. “I have something I would very much like to show you.” He had a small smile on his face and a definite twinkle in his eye. “We must hurry because I’d like you to see it before the sun goes down.”

 

“All right.” John stood and stretched, his hands over his head. When he brought them down again, he noticed Sherlock looking at his midsection.

 

“What is it?”

 

“Well when you lift your hands like that, your belly shows, and it does funny things to me.” He looked back at John and blushed. John stepped close to Sherlock, smiled at him with his killer smile and placed his hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck, drawing his head down. “I’m going to kiss you now,” he said in a quiet, deadly voice. Sherlock blushed harder. John, with just the right pressure and just the right lip movement, slowly and carefully kissed the stuffing out of him.

 

“John?” Sherlock said after John had pulled away, Sherlock’s lower lip between his own.

 

“Yes, Sherlock?”

 

“If we don’t go soon I might embarrass myself.”

 

John chuckled, “Very well.” He headed toward the stairs.

 

“This way.”

 

“We’re going outside?”

 

“You wanted the moon and the stars. I am bringing you to them.”

 

Sherlock held out his hand to John, who smiled and took the hand in his, and together they made their way out of the castle, walking a familiar path. The last time John had been this way he’d been considerably shorter.

 

“Are we going to the pond?”

 

“I thought it fitting, seeing as it’s where I first met you.”

 

As they drew closer, John could hear the soft strains of a violin. The light faded in small measures the way watercolours dissolve, spreading out in soft blues, purples, and greens. A chorus of crickets also serenaded them as they walked the path and the stars were winking into the night sky as if they had all the time in the world. John noticed a small table set in the tall grass. Two chairs and a servant waited. There were lanterns on metal poles placed into the ground at intervals and the aroma of good food wafted into the air. Something large floated out on the pond. It gleamed in the fading light, the last rays of the sun touching the golden tops of the posts as if giving a benediction.

 

“Is that…is that a bed?”

 

“Yes, John. I had it placed on an enormous raft and anchored out in the pond.”

 

Flabbergasted, he could just make out the outline of the bed in the faint light. It was an enormous four-poster with billowing curtains of a flimsy material in soft pastels, open to the night sky. It could be that as the sky drifted to black, the colours of the sunset had bled into the material, leaving them behind.

 

John reached up and pecked Sherlock on the cheek. Sherlock lifted John’s hand and kissed him on the knuckles before showing him to his seat.

 

What they ate for supper, John would have a hard time remembering, the anticipation of what lay before them driving all thoughts out of his head. He smiled gently at Sherlock, and while the conversation swirled through the air, he only took in the silver and green eyes, the plush, pink lips and the way his nose crinkled. Sherlock for his part committed everything to memory, the way John giggled and how he deliberately licked his finger whilst staring at Sherlock’s mouth and how the sound of the music blended in with the sound of the night waking up.

 

Finally, finally, he stood, dismissed the violinist and the servant, held out his hand and led John onto a small boardwalk that took them to the raft where the bed was anchored.

 

Sherlock looked at John whose midnight blue eyes reflected the night sky in them. John lifted a hand and tucked an errant curl behind Sherlock’s ear. And then he kissed him.

 

“Okay, let’s get naked,” he whispered.

 

“Had enough wooing?”

 

“Oh God, yes!”

 

Their clothing quickly lay in a pile on the raft. Sherlock felt uncommonly shy, having not really been naked in front of someone before and this being the first time he slept with a human, sleeping with John the frog not really counting.

 

Cupping his face, John smiled before he leaned in to kiss him. He then drew him slowly onto the bed. Kisses and sighs, skin tingles and goose bumps, the occasional gasp and a few ‘Oh God, Yes! John’s’ followed. For good measure, John definitely had three spectacular, toe curling orgasms and Sherlock, for good measure, to keep him company and to be on the safe side, did as well.

 

Morning came, and as the sunrise broke, Sherlock woke to find John, still human, with his head on his shoulder, looking thoroughly and happily shagged out. Sherlock kissed his forehead, stroked his hair and then shook him awake, saying. “John, wake up! We need to get to the throne room and tell Mycroft all about the fabulous sex we had. I’m sure there would be no way that he and Sir Gregory had better sex.”

 

Blinking his eyes, he squinted a bit at Sherlock, kissed his chest and replied, “I’m going to have my hands full with you, aren’t I?”

 

Sherlock shimmed his body down a bit, so their faces were in line. “Yes John, you will. There’s only you, you see,” he said rather solemnly.

 

“Only me what?

 

“There’s only you to keep me right, John Watson.”

 

“Ah Sherlock, I love you. Marry me?”

 

“Yes, John.”

 

And they were married shortly after and lived Happily Ever after.

 

Or at least they did after they had solved numerous complicated and tantalizing mysteries, including _The Case of the Slumbering Princess and the Seven Short Stalkers, The Mystery of the Missing Crystal Slipper, The Burgling Blondie and the Broken Bed_ and many, many more.

 

The End


End file.
